[ Fuck, the bite. Derek makes these wanton, breathy sounds, squeezing his arm around Tate's waist hard enough to hurt and leaning into it, almost crying out from how much he adores the feeling of teeth against his throat. The longer this goes on, the less he fucks Tate like he's trying to get them both off, and more because the friction between them and the scent of his precum and the heat of his body are the only things Derek can even fucking think about. He ruts against Tate more and more like he's made of instinct and need more than thoughts and civility, and every hard, labored thrust comes with undignified sounds and moans and gasps rolling from the back of Derek's throat. He's not holding back. Doesn't even pretend to try.

Tate's grips onto Derek's finger as he pulls it back out of him, tight enough that it's like he's refusing to let go. Derek shivers, bucking his hips up, rustling the sleeping bag around him. He presses two fingers to Tate's hole, this time, wanting to see how much he'll stretch for him. He presses almost urgently against Tate until he yields and he takes him, dragging his fingers down to their second knuckles, insatiably needy and barely prepped. Fuck, fuck, he's so tight. ]

Fuck, Tate. [ He finds a rhythm, slower and smoother than each grind of his cock over Tate's. It takes a monumental effort to keep it that way. ] Fuck, you're so-- fuck, I bet you feel amazing. You'd make me come so fucking fast, you'd make me come harder than I've ever...

[ He swallows, shaking his head, cutting himself off. Tate's hole is intense, but Derek isn't going to push things too far. They need... time, they need a bed, they need proper, solid prep. He can't be greedy. ]

Fuck.